


Once In A Lifetime

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Indian Character, M/M, Sherlock-centric, Unilock, first meeting with John, slight submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was looking for a flatmate when he met John Watson because he’d just left his partner, Victor. Victor had betrayed Sherlock’s trust and ruined his faith in humanity. Sherlock decided to guard his heart and never risk having it broken again, even though he was immediately attracted to the handsome Army Doctor.</p><p>First-person, Sherlock’s POV backstory that explains why Sherlock is so evasive with John when he’s obviously attracted to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Will Always Be So

Victor and I met our third year in university. Our paths had not crossed before since I spent most of my waking hours in the chemistry lab, which was a considerable distance from the buildings housing the business classes. I dragged myself away from my microscope on a Friday evening at my flatmate’s insistence. He was friends with some recently-graduated students who were throwing a house party to celebrate one of them landing a job. 

My flatmate, Stephen, and I got along well because we gave each other a wide berth and both paid our half of the bills on time. We went days at a time without exchanging a word, which suited both of us just fine. Stephen ran with the popular party crowd and I tended to keep to myself, but he was always kind to me. We’d crossed paths many times our first year and he asked me to share a flat the next year; our arrangement was in its second year and I expected it to continue through graduation.

I’d escaped to the party to the house’s back porch to have a smoke. The music inside was overwhelming - the Beastie Boys loud enough to make my teeth vibrate. I winced at the thump of the base that carried through the closed door. My first cigarette had burned down to the filter and I’d lit another from the glowing tip before stubbing it out. I hadn't planned to chain smoke but it gave me an excuse to stay outside a little longer. I took the last drink of warm beer from the red plastic cup in my hand; I let the cup dangle from my fingers while I leaned on the porch railing to finish my cigarette. I stared at my feet since there wasn’t anything more interesting to look at in the dark back garden.

I raised my head when the door opened. The music had shifted to something more melodic - REM was it? - still loud but easier on the eardrums. A tall, handsome man stepped out. He grinned at me as he pulled out a beat up pack of Marlboros and shook one out. “Little much in there, isn’t it?” His manner was open and friendly. His accent told me London but edged with something else. I looked up into his nearly-black eyes. Up? I rarely looked _up_ to anyone. This man was at least 6’4” and maybe taller. Along with his very dark brown eyes he had a head of thick, glossy, blackest-black curls, long and slightly shaggy over his forehead. His skin was very fair olive; his shoulders were very wide and waist very narrow, but he was not meaty like a rugby player. Just the opposite, in fact - his frame was large but his muscles were finely tuned over his bones. His grin showed full, mauve tinged lips over very white, even teeth. Fine brows arched over his bottomless eyes and very thick, long, dark lashes outlined his eyes. I thought to myself, _this is the most beautiful man I have ever seen outside of a magazine or the telly._

He held out a large, finely-shaped hand and introduced himself as Victor. I took that hand and told him my name. We chatted a bit as he smoked. My own cigarette was finished and I didn’t fancy chain-smoking a third. He told me he was born and raised in central London. His parents were immigrants from Punjab. They were Sikh but Victor had given up the faith when he was a teen. His parents owned a newsstand where Victor still worked on Sundays and any free morning during the week. He told me he was studying Economics and hoped to work in investments after graduation. He upended his own cup when he noticed the empty cup still dangling from my fingers. 

“I really don’t want to go back in there. Want to go find someplace a little more quiet and grab a pint?” I wasn’t sure if this gorgeous man was being friendly or trying to pick me up. My heart jumped at the thought it could be the later; at least I hoped he was flirting with me. I accepted the invitation and we set off down the alley at the back of the garden. We were soon out on the main road and found a pub after a few blocks. 

I held the door open and allowed Victor to pass in before me. We found an open booth toward the back and slid into opposite sides. Victor went to the bar and returned with two pint glasses sloshing over with amber liquid. Unlike most people at the party, I’d drank very little and it seemed that Victor had too. He asked me about myself while we sipped our lager and listened to my answers with genuine interest. I felt more comfortable in Victor’s presence than I’d felt with anyone since leaving home at 17.

Our glasses were soon empty. I glanced at my watch and discovered it was past 1 in the morning. Victor noticed the glance at my watch and remarked at the late hour. He asked if I’d like to go back to his flat for another drink; I finally had confirmation that he was interested in more than just friendship. I eagerly agreed and we set off. His place was only a few blocks away, a third floor walk-up in a crumbling Victorian brick house that had been divided into flats many years before either of us were born. We took the metal stairs on the alley side of the house to the third floor. 

As he unlocked the door Victor explained that his flatmate was probably sleeping - he was studious and didn’t stay out late, even on the weekend. We tiptoed through the dark living room; Victor opened a doorway off of it that led directly into his bedroom. He explained that the attic flat had a rather unorthodox layout. His bedroom was to one side of the living room, then the kitchen was to the other, and his roommate’s bedroom led off the kitchen. Each bedroom had an attached bathroom. I thought silently that the arrangement was brilliant - we could be as loud as we wanted without fear of waking the sleeping flatmate.

Victor ducked back out to grab drinks and returned almost immediately with two cold cans. He cracked the tab on both and handed one to me. I’d taken a seat on the edge of his large bed and kicked off my shoes. He toed off his leather boat shoes - he wasn’t wearing socks and his feet were long and elegant. I took a drink of the cold beer to cover the fact I was staring at his feet. I didn’t want him to think I had a foot fetish. _It’s just a little kink, not a full-fledged fetish._

He was wearing a dark orange, thin cotton Polo shirt over a white vest. I could see the white undershirt in the vee of the unbuttoned Polo. He pulled the Polo over his head as he closed the short distance to the bed then seated himself against the headboard, pulling pillows behind his back as he relaxed. I turned to face him and brought one knee onto the bed to be more comfortable. 

“Sherlock, why don’t you take off your jacket to be more comfortable?” The look at the accompanied the suggestion left little room in my imagination of what was soon to come. I quickly slipped off my black cotton jacket, unbuttoned the cuffs of my thin white cotton shirt and rolled the sleeves to my elbows. Victor looked on between sips from his can. I noticed him staring at my hands as I rolled the cuffs. I wasn’t vain but knew my hands were one of my best features - long, graceful fingers calloused on the pads from hours spent with my precious violin. I reached out and took the can from his hand and set both on the bedside table. Then I leaned in, intending to kiss him lightly but he leaned in too and our mouths met with more force and passion than I’d ever experienced. I wasn’t inexperienced - in fact, I’d had so many offers that I’d turned down sex many times since I was a teen. Both women and men found me attractive and I’d experimented extensively with both before settling into my sexuality the summer between graduating from school and leaving for university. I’d always known I was gay but flirted with the idea of bi or pansexuality until I realized that women weren’t really my area.

But back to that kiss. Jesus, it was amazing. I’d kissed well north of 50 people by that point in my life, some amazing kissers and some duds. I liked to think I knew my way around a man’s mouth but Victor absolutely blew me out of the water. His lips and tongue set fire to my mouth and left a trail of scorched earth in their path. I felt dizzy after only five minutes. I knew it wasn’t the beer - I’d only had four all evening, not nearly enough to feel so disoriented from a kiss. He ended the kiss masterfully and pulled back to peer into my eyes. I smiled warmly - well, I tried to convey warmth but past lovers had told me that my light blue-green-gray eyes always looked cold. Victor’s dark, dark eyes twinkled as he smiled in reply. “That was good,” I murmured, realizing as I said it that it made me sound rather stupid but my mind was too rattled to come up with anything more profound.

Victor just smiled and slipped a hand around my neck to pull me closer for another scorching kiss. Before I even realized where my hands were, they’d wandered to the hem of Victor’s vest and pushed it up to his armpits. I became aware of my appendages and their travels when Victor moaned into my mouth as I palmed his pectorals. I felt his nipples harden against my palms and another part of my anatomy began to harden in response. Maybe I was a little more drunk than I’d thought; I wasn’t usually so forward when it came to first-time sex. I usually liked to take it slow, let the other person lead and see where things went. But my hands were on a different course tonight and seemed to wander of their own accord. Victor sat back abruptly and skimmed the white undershirt over his head. Before he could sit forward to lock our lips again, I thrust my hands at his belt and fumbled awkwardly with the buckle. He sucked a breath through his nose then gently pushed my awkward hands away and undid the buckle himself, then the button at the waistband of his jeans. I took over with the zip then folded the flies back. 

He wasn’t wearing pants. _Brilliant idea._ His cock immediately began to thicken when I brushed my fingertips along the top. I caressed, feeling it lengthen, rubbing my thumb over the glans. Victor’s head dropped against the wooden headboard with a _thunk._ He groaned my name as I stroked his cock to full attention. It was long, thick - beautiful. The hair at the base was as black as his raven curls and the thin skin covering the shaft was darker than his complexion. 

Suddenly I wanted this beautiful man naked just for me. Something about keeping my clothes on while he was completely nude turned me on to the point I was afraid my clothing would burst into flames. I pulled at his hips, encouraging him to lift them so I could slip off his jeans. Victor compiled then placed both arms around my shoulders with his fingers interlaced behind my head. My hair was cropped close in those days so he didn’t have much to hang on to as I leaned in and kissed him while returning my attention to his swollen prick. I reached both hands behind his hips and pulled him down to lay flat on the mattress, then climbed on to straddle his hips with my denim clad legs. I was still stroking his cock very slowly as it twitched and responded to every caress. I was excited, harder in my pants than I’d been in a long while. 

I sat back on my haunches and unbuttoned my shirt while Victor watched. I left it on and tugged the tails out of the waistband of my jeans. I wasn’t wearing a belt and my jeans were very tight from waist to ankle. I decided to just undo the flies instead of struggling out of the damned things. Victor gave a sigh of protest when I let go of his cock long enough to undo my zip and fish out my cock. I sighed in relief as it sprang from the Y in my boxer briefs. It had been so uncomfortable in my tight jeans that I just had to give it a few pulls before turning my attention back to Victor. 

Victor groaned softly as he watched me stroke myself. I don’t know what came over me - I wasn’t normally an exhibitionisht but I said in a sultry voice, “You want to watch?” Oh, he liked that, moaning and nodding his head eagerly. I rose up on my knees and stroked again, slow and tight from tip to base and back again. Really, it felt wonderful after being constricted in tight jeans. Victor’s face flushed. The beautiful red flush creeping up into his cheeks drew a bead of precome from my cock in reponse. I flicked my thumb over the glans to collect the viscous liquid then offered the shiny digit to Victor. He eagerly nodded. I swiped my wet thumb over his plump lower lip then leaned in to lick off the taste of my own arousal. Victor tightened his hands behind my neck, trapping me there for a long, passionate kiss. This man could do the most amazing things with his tongue - I wanted to kiss him for hours. 

By the time I pulled back to break the kiss, precome had leaked from my prick onto Victor’s stomach and an answering pearl of translucent fluid dotted the slit of his flushed-mauve cock. I felt overwhelmed with the possibilities the night held. I wanted everything and to do it all simultaneously. I wanted to continue kissing this amazing person: I wanted to suck his beautiful cock, I didn’t want to take my hands off his perfect body, I wanted him to fuck me six ways to Sunday, I wanted to pound him into the mattress, I wanted to kiss him - all at the same time. 

He took the decision out of my hands by pushing my shoulder to topple me to the mattress and quickly caging me in with his elbows and knees. His hips moved to lightly brush our rock-hard cocks together and my brain may have short-circuited because the world withdrew into a single pinpoint of sensation between my legs. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he suddenly thrust his hips hard against mine, grinding our pricks together roughly and I let out a loud, inelegant groan that took all the air out of my lungs.

“Christ in heaven, Victor, you’re amazing.” My mouth formed words with no input from my brain. I didn’t even know it was me who had spoken - I hardly recognized my own voice, it was so ragged with need. 

I was no blushing virgin. I’d been around the block enough times to wear a rut but sex had never, ever felt like this before. He lowered himself so we fit together hip-to-shoulder and buried his face in my neck. My hips responded to the nips and wet kisses at my neck, thrusting of their own accord, chasing the sensation of his fire-hot flesh against mine. 

He moaned my name against my ear when he threaded his hand between our bellies and aligned the pinpoint of my world with his. His hips matched the rhythm of mine as we ground together, moaning and gasping. I don’t know how I held out but Victor came first. I kept up our rhythm through his orgasm and when he was done he repositioned his hand to hold only my cock tight. He slid up to the mattress but kept our hips pressed together. He propped on his elbow, his chest still half on mine, and peered intently into my eyes. “I want to watch you come,” he whispered in a voice of finest silk as his hand stroked and twisted. I tried to hold my head up and keep my eyes on his but his hand just felt too damned good. My head ground back into the pillow and my neck arched as I gasped after my own release. 

“Let me see you,” he whispered. “Give me your orgasm.” I never knew I had a submission kink until my body immediately responded to his command. My eyes flew open to meet his as my mouth dropped open and a soft “oh” escaped my throat. And did I ever give him my orgasm! His hand, my belly and both our chests were spattered again and again as I relished the most intense release I’d ever experienced. At last I collapsed, spent and happy. He lowered his head to my shoulder and stroked his fingertips over my wet, sticky belly. 

Then he raised a fingertip to my lips and whispered, “Taste us.” And holy hell, a whole new world of kink opened before me. This man was a genius. I sucked his long, strong finger into my mouth and eagerly lapped up our mingled come. 

I wanted to give it another go, immediately, without cleaning up but even young bodies need a few minutes to recover. When Victor withdrew his finger and made to rise I tightened my arm around his shoulder. “Stay,” I breathed. 

I didn’t even know the term for ‘come play’ but he’d set a fire in me for more of it. I swiped my palm lazily through the cooling mess on my belly, groaning as I rubbed it into my skin and felt the sticky fluid squeeze up between my fingers. And forget what I said about young bodies needing time to recover; my cock thickened in response to this new-found sensation. I pulled Victor tightly to me and ravished his mouth. All thought of technique fled as I plunged my tongue roughly into his over and over. My hips lifted to match the tempo of my tongue without any conscious thought on my part. Victor added his hand to mine, drawing circles on my belly then reaching his sticky hand between my legs to coat my bollocks and perineum. I think I had a mini stroke at the sensation.

Victor was spent but he made sure to take care of me again. He knelt over my thighs and sucked my sticky cock into his mouth. The things he could do with his tongue in my mouth paled in comparison to what that tongue did on my cock. Honestly, I thought he must have been raised by circus performers to be able to do such contortions with the thick muscle inside his mouth. When he added lips and suction my entire system experienced a reboot - and I think I came, too, but was too focused on the out-of-body experience I was having to take note of my emission.

I stayed the night and all of the next day and the following night, too. We moved into a single bedroom flat the following academic year. Our families met at our graduation ceremony and thankfully were accepting of our relationship. I knew I’d found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Victor told me the same, over and over. We were confident we’d conquer London, get great jobs and change the world. We knew we’d be in love forever and never spend more than a few days apart. I wanted my last breath to be in this amazing man’s arms. I wanted our ashes to be mixed and buried together. I was his and he was mine and I knew, in the depths of my soul, that it would always be so.


	2. The Only One In The World

Victor found a job right off with an international investment firm. I looked around a little and when reality didn’t meet my expectations, I enrolled in graduate school at Oxford to further my chemistry studies. We found a flat that was central to Victor’s job and the university and settled in. Victor rose quickly through the ranks and was soon on track to make partner before 30. His job took up more and more of his time so I immersed myself in the chemistry lab. I flew through the master's program. Victor was front and center as I received my degree and was the first to clasp me in a bear hug, even before my parents. 

We were happy. I was happy, gloriously, giddily happy during those years. My studies were engrossing, Victor’s career was on fire, we were so good together and made a striking couple. I’d always loved Victor’s long, shaggy curls so I let my hair grow out, too, but kept it cropped just above my shirt collar; I didn’t like the feel of curls matting underneath my collar. Victor let his hair grow even longer and hot damn, did he ever look amazing with black, glossy curls past his shoulders.

I decided to pursue doctoral studies in chemistry. Victor agreed with good humor and told me he’d be proud to call me Doctor Holmes. Victor was promoted to managing trader over his firm’s Scandinavian accounts division. He often traveled for two or three days at a time but always made it home for the weekend. I didn’t mind because my mind was in my lab during the week but I did miss him when I came home to our empty flat.

On Fridays we’d meet up for drinks after work with his coworkers. I’d leave my lab mid-afternoon and stop at home to shower and change then meet them at a whatever bar was hot that week. Victor and the other traders knew how to p-a-r-t-y. Drinks were nearly always accompanied by chemical enhancement, usually cocaine, sometimes E or heroin. As the hour grew later the party would move to whatever club was most popular and we’d dance until the wee morning hours. I loved those nights dancing pressed against Victor, flying high and feeling like we owned the world, sweating and moving to overwhelmingly loud industrial music. We’d stumble home around 3am and fuck until the sun came up then sleep until noon. 

Saturdays were ‘our’ time. Lunch at a bistro, browsing a farmers market, visiting my parents or his sister, stopping by his parents’ newsstand. I didn’t care what we did as long as we did it together. I couldn’t get enough of Victor on the weekends after our week-long droughts. 

We clicked nearly too perfectly. We never argued. When we did disagree about something we discussed our differences rationally and either came to a compromise or we agreed to disagree. I’d never heard Victor raise his voice and I’m pretty sure I’d never raised mine in his presence. He was such a restful soul to be around; our flat really was our haven from the hectic world.

I raced through my doctoral classes and immersed myself in research for my dissertation. I admitted to myself that my passion for chemistry was wearing thin but had no idea what else I’d do if I abandoned my studies. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the business world - I’d watched Victor’s meteoric rise in the cutthroat world of business in awe, unable to ever see myself working under such structure and strict rules. 

One night Victor and I ducked out the back door of a club and cut through a series of narrow alleys to reach the main road. We rounded a blind corner and ran smack into the middle of a police-tape-restricted crime scene. I took in the victim with a glance and realized she’d been at the club and left with another woman. I’d noticed earlier that her accompanist had been acting in a suspicious manner. I approached the prematurely graying detective who seemed to be in charge and offered my observations. He thanked me brusquely and hurried us on our way. His lack of interest in my help may have had something to do with the fact that both my partner and I were obviously drunk as skunks and flying high. As we made staggered away down the alley the detective called me back and took my name and number.

DI Lestrade called me the following morning. He asked me to come to New Scotland Yard to answer a few questions. I texted Victor during the cab ride to explain what was happening. He texted back to wish me luck. I ended up spending the rest of the day and most of the evening with Lestrade going over evidence and photographs from the crime scene. I pointed out many relevant details the Met forensic team had missed. DI Lestrade took me over to Bart’s Hospital morgue in the afternoon to see the victim’s body first-hand. I rattled off my deductions while Lestrade scribbled furiously in a little notebook.

When I noticed the sky darkening outside Lestrade’s office window, I realized we’d been at it for ten hours with breaks only to travel to and from the hospital. I wasn’t tired, or hungry, or even the least bit bored. I’d never felt better in my life. I excused myself to get home, worried that Victor wondered if I’d disappeared. I hailed a cab but really, I felt like I could fly home on wings made of adrenaline. I bounded up the stairs two at a time to find Victor in the living room curled up on the sofa watching telly. He sat up when he saw my excitement and I told him everything. We talked until well past midnight. Victor told me he was thrilled to see me passionate about something at last and I realized then that my interest in chemistry really had died on the vine ages ago. I’d continued to study out of habit and lack of viable alternatives.

I put some serious research into forensic science over the next few days. I wasn’t interested in any job that took additional schooling. I’d had enough of study, and classes, and research for publication, and academia. I wanted to work, to do something useful I could sink my teeth into. I visited DI Lestrade again and offered my services on any other cases he might struggle with. And overnight, I had a job and a completely new career direction. I called it Consulting Detective and as far as I could tell, I was the first in the world. I’d consult with the Met on complex cases in exchange to access to their resources and Bart’s morgue and lab when I needed them. 

DI Lestrade quickly piled cases on me. He shoved boxes of cold case files in my arms whenever I visited NSY. He called me out at all hours of the day and night to inspect crime scenes. I loved every minute. I was drunk on information, high on cases, drowning in details and it was glorious. Victor said he’d never seen me so luminous and I loved him even more than I’d thought possible. We celebrated my new job with a night of dancing, drinking, coke and a level of mind-blowing sex I didn’t think humanly possible. That beautiful man had a glorious combination of wicked imagination and filthy mind that kept me hungry for ever more of him. 

I never went back to my lab at Oxford, not even to collect my personal items. I emailed my advisor that I was done and received a lengthy email in return. I hit DELETE without reading it. I’m sure he was berating me for abandoning my research, trying to convince me I had a bright future in academia, that science needed minds like mine, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I didn’t care a whit and nothing he had to say could have convinced me to return to my studies.

My brother was rising through the ranks of the British intelligence agency during those years. By the time I set up shop as the world’s only Consulting Detective he was secretly running about a third of the free - and not-so-free - world. Mycroft was, and is, a master puppeteer. The general public does not know his name but he controls so much of what they see and hear that the title Big Brother is quite apt. He gave me a small case early on to test out my abilities; I’m sure he thought I’d fail and then he could lord it over me the rest of our lives. Instead I went far beyond just success - I blew his mind. He began sending more and more work to me. 

Between intelligence work, my work with the Met and private cases, I built the career of my dreams. Victor was no longer the only rising star in our home. He reveled in my successes as much as I did his. We often stayed up all night talking about my cases or his work; we helped each other work out issues and problems. He and I were a team, partners in every aspect of our lives.

Life was good. I was in love, in the city I loved, doing meaningful work that contributed to the greater good. Victor was zooming to the top of his field. Thanks to his job we had more money than we could ever need so I could take cases based on how much they interested me, not on how much they’d pay. The only thing I wished we had more of was time. Time together, time to just lay in bed for hours talking like we had in the beginning, time to try new restaurants, time to take holidays to Barcelona and Hawaii and all the other places we said we’d like to see. More time with our families, more time with friends, more quiet time just reading side-by-side, more time for walks in parks, more time for train rides to the countryside. I had everything I could ever want and the only thing I longed for was more time with the man I loved so passionately.


	3. Family and weddings

Victor’s sister got engaged to her long-time boyfriend. Even though Victor no longer observed the faith, he agreed to take part in the traditional Sikh wedding ceremony. The day of the wedding I saw him in his Sikh garb for the first time and was left speechless. His face below the saffron turban took on a completely foreign look - a devastatingly handsome, overwhelmingly beautiful exoctic creature of myth. When he stepped from the bedroom into the living room, still sliding his Kara over his wrist, the first sight of him took my breath away. Even clean-shaven, he looked like a traditional spiritual warrior in his turban, loose white caftan flowing over his lean hips to his knees, narrow cut drawstring cotton trousers bunched tight around his ankles dark brown sandals highlighting his slender, elegant feet. 

I threw down the book I’d been reading and lept from my chair, nearly tackling him in my haste to show him the effect his new look had me. I wanted to fuck him in his garb, just rucking up the caftan and jerking the gauze trousers to his knees. We both knew we only had an hour until we needed to be at his parent’s house for the traditional family preparations before leaving for the Gurdwara for the ceremony, but all thoughts of deadlines flew from my mind as I pulled Victor down for a passionate kiss. I couldn’t keep my hands off him. They roamed over his outfit of their own accord, wanting to touch and caress every inch of his cotton-gauze-clad body. 

I felt his response against my belly and suddenly time stood still. The world - hell, the Universe- coalesced to our living room, the spots where our bodies touched, his hard cock against my abdomen. I reached into the slit that ran from the hem of his caftan to his thigh to make walking easier, and pulled out the bow holding the drawstring of his trousers. Victor groaned and made to remove the shirt. “No, leave it on,” I murmured against his lips. I pressed my knee between his legs and ground my hip against his thigh. He was so much taller than me, his hip pressed my belly and mine pressed his thigh. I’d been hard since my first glimpse of this gorgeous exotic man. I released his lips and attacked his neck, kissing and nipping as I slid my hands to the small of his back and pulled him tighter.

“No marks! I have to stand up in front of four hundred people in an hour.” Victor’s voice was already thick from arousal. The sound of it fanned my flames. 

“I want everyone to see that you’re mine,” I countered. And I did - God, I wanted the world to know that this man was mine and I was his. I was half out of my mind for want of him. “I wish this was our wedding,” I breathed into his scratchy jaw. Same sex marriage wasn’t legal in the UK at that time so we both knew I was just wishing, not proposing. But I wanted it. I wanted so badly to make Victor mine for the rest of our lives, to wear a heavy wedding band that he’d placed on my finger for everyone to see.

My spiritual warrior was moaning and sighing against me, as desperate for me as I was for him. I traced the rim of his ear with the tip of my tongue then whispered, “I want to suck you. Just like this. Leave it all on.” I dropped to my knees and yanked the thin cotton trousers to his knees along with his white boxer briefs. I was momentarily distracted by those pants. “I didn’t know you had any white pants.” I stared at the offending article of clothing with distaste. 

Victor chuckled, “Had to buy them for the wedding. I couldn’t have my black pants showing through this outfit.” 

I shoved the hem of his flowing top aside. He grabbed it and held it out of my face. I sat back on my haunches and just looked him up and down for a minute. He looked amazing. The orange turban hiding his curls sat like a crown above his fine, high forehead. His cheeks were tinged pink with arousal, his lips were slightly puffy from kissing, my saliva glistened on his neck and the pure white of his shirt and pants framed the tangle of black curls at the junction of his muscular thighs. And his cock stood at attention, thick and long and dark olive, the glans partially hidden by foreskin, just waiting for my attention. I quickly jerked the tails of my shirt dress shirt out of my waistband then undid my flies before my own erection damaged the trousers straining over it. 

Victor circled his fingers at the base of his cock and groaned, “Please, Sherlock, suck me.” The desire in his voice set fire to the blood in my veins. I wanted to fuck him but the tiny part of my mind still capable of rational thought reminded me that we really were in a rush. I circled my fist over Victor’s and took his cock as far into my mouth as I could without gagging. His hips thrust forward to meet my mouth and I groaned around his shaft, eager for all of him. I relaxed as much as I was able and went down even more, burying my nose in the clean pouf of curls at the base of his cock and swallowing around him. If it was possible, I think Victor was even more turned on than I was. I sat about pleasuring him hard and fast, not wanting to make him late for his only sister’s wedding. He groaned and sighed my name as I ran through the techniques that I’d learned were his favorites in our eight years together. I loved him even more than when we were in uni, and wanted him as much and even more than I had then. He came with a shout and I swallowed and swallowed until he pulled out at last.

I quickly fished my handkerchief out of my back pocket. I grabbed my own leaking cock and stroked roughly while Victor watched. I was so turned on it took less than a dozen strokes for me to come into the handkerchief - why make a mess if I could avoid it? I laid my forehead against Victor’s thigh and exhaled with satisfaction. He stroked my hair, careful to avoid messing the curls I’d spent half an hour styling. After a few minutes I caught my breath and struggled to my feet. We both straightened our clothing then kissed languidly for a few more minutes. Victor pulled away first, his eyes gleaming in the pale morning sunlight coming through the living room window. “I love you so much. That was amazing.” I felt his words to my marrow, that he loved me as much as I loved him.

I replied sincerely. “I love you too. Always.”

Luckily we found a cab right away and arrived at his parents house only 15 minutes later than we’d promised; no one even noticed in the chaos of wedding preparations. Finally the houseful of relatives prayed together and Victor’s observant family members bowed before the Sri Guru Granth. We went along to the Gurdwara. Thankfully everyone’s attention was on the bride and groom and it seemed that the red marks just above the neckline of Victor’s caftan went unnoticed.

I sat in the front row, accepted as part of Victor’s family. I nearly burst my seams with pride over my handsome partner as he sat beside me during the very long ceremony. The reception was dry, of course, and I even made it through without going out for a smoke out of respect for the couple’s faith. Victor’s family had always accepted our relationship with no reservations but we were nervous about the groom’s family, since some Sikhs, like some Christians or Muslims or any other faith, were homophobic. We kept a respectful restraint on ourselves for the day.

We finally excused ourselves close to midnight. We were both dying for a smoke and a drink and I was desperate to get my hands on Victor again while he was still wearing his traditional clothing. We both hotboxed cigarettes before hailing a cab. I couldn’t keep my hands off Victor in the back seat. I made a disappointed sound when he ripped off the turban and scratched his scalp roughly. He grinned and me and promised to re-tie the turban at home. 

We barely made it up the steps and into our flat before falling through the doorway together. I wanted him so badly and he seemed to return the sentiment twofold. “Tie that turban,” I begged as I followed him down the hall to the bedroom. Victor turned toward the mirror to give the turban his attention as I stripped off my suit and climbed into bed. I unbuttoned my shirt and it’s cuffs but left it on - Victor liked that. I pushed the covers to the foot of the bed and flopped back onto the crisp white sheets while I waited for my exoctic prince.

At last said prince turned from the mirror to the bed with a wide smile. “Sorry, Sherlock, I can’t grow a Sikh beard overnight.”

“Get your exotic arse over here right now. I prefer you clean-shaven.”

Victor climbed into bed fully-clothed. He settled between my naked legs and propped his elbows on either side of my head, then took my face into his large, strong hands and titled it just the way he liked for kissing. I sighed and melted, loving that Victor was dominating me tonight. We’d never talked about my submission kink but Victor had picked up on it right away and indulged me in small ways without going overboard. He kept the kissing slow and sensual, rubbing his cotton gauze clad body over mine again and again as he writhed over me. I snaked my hand between our bodies and pulled his trousers’ drawstring. He sat back and made to remove the loose bottoms but I protested. “Leave them on. I want to fuck you in full traditional attire.”

Victor laughed and rolled onto his back. “If I’d known you had such a thing for it, I would have worn this long before now. It’s actually comfortable. Except for the turban. That itches like mad.”

I crawled over my lover and caged him in with my elbows and knees. “I didn’t know I had a thing for it until I saw you in a turban this morning.” I chucked and reached between us to move his long top out of the way. I loved the feel of the gauzy cotton against my skin so I shoved it up barely enough to be out of our way. I reached up to stroke Victor’s cheek - it was scratchy with 5 o’clock shadow but I didn’t care; his face was the most beautiful in the world to me. Suddenly my eyes misted and my mood changed. I whispered, “If it was legal, I’d ask you to marry me.” And I meant it, I loved this man so much, I felt like my heart would break my ribs.

“If it was legal, I’d say yes.” Victor’s dark eyes were shining with love as he whispered back. I kissed him, deep and tender. He laid a hand on my cheek and gently separated our faces a few inches so he could continue. “Let’s do it. A marriage license doesn’t matter. The government can’t keep me from marrying the man I love. We can do it right here, in the living room. Exchange vows and rings. It will mean the same thing to me as if we were in a church or temple.”

The mist in my eyes increased. The man of my dreams, the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, just agreed to marry me. “Yes, let’s do it. Next Saturday, right here. You’re right, the government can’t dictate this.” I tried to stifle a sob; it came out as a half-laugh, half hiccough. Victor laughed at the ridiculous sound and just like that, we were laughing and rolling around on our big bed, giddy with the thought that we were actually going to get married, legal or not. 

Eventually I ended up on top of Victor again. I kissed him again and again but one or the other of us kept giggling during the kisses, so the mood was light. I reached between us to grasp Victor’s cock to mine, then rolled my hips to slide against his hardness. It felt amazing. I reached for the lube on the bedside table and slicked my hand, then repeated the motion. It felt even more amazing. I kept up the languid pace as Victor writhed and sighed below me. I watched his face as his passion built and the tension in his jaw slackened even as the tension in his groin increased. He gasped a quiet, surprised “oh” as he came. I soon followed. The feel of his hot, sticky come on my dick always sent me over the edge and I didn’t even try to hold back, moaning Victor’s name - _loud_ \- and spurting all over his white-cotton-clad abdomen. I collapsed on Victor, head to his chest, utterly spent from the very long day and all the emotions it had evoked.

Victor stroked my hair with his left hand and my cheek with his right. When I finally gathered enough strength to raise my head, I found him smiling fondly, eyes shining. “Hello, finance,” he said softly. 

I smiled back and murmured, “Hello, fiance.” I rolled onto my back, took his hand and laced our fingers together. 

I was too exhausted to even remove my dress shirt - I’d just sleep in the damned thing. I’d started to drift off to sleep when Victor roused me by sitting up to remove his top, pants and turban. “You’ll have to get that laundered this week,” I mumbled.

He turned to me with a serious expression on his face. “No, Sherlock, I won’t wear this for our vows. This” - he gestured to his clothing - “isn’t a part of my life anymore. It’s not part of what we have together. I want you to marry the man you know.”

I nodded agreement with his point. Neither of us practiced the faiths in which we’d been raised so it really didn’t have a place in our exchange of vows. To show my agreement I said, “It’s a good thing you look wicked hot in a suit.” 

~*~

And that’s how I came to be standing in front of the fireplace in our living room the following Friday evening, gazing up at Victor as he made a vow to love me and cherish me for the rest of his life. When he slipped the heavy gold band onto my finger - we’d picked out matching rings - I could hardly breathe around the lump in my throat. Our parents, his sister and brother in law, my brother and 10 of our friends watched as I vowed to love and cherish Victor until the day I died. A tear escaped and splashed our hands as I slid the ring onto his finger. I wasn’t sure if it had escaped from my eye or Victor’s. 

We’d reserved a private room at a nice restaurant and our party adjourned to it for dinner and drinks. My brother, Mycroft, surprised us with a small traditional wedding cake he’d ordered for us to cut as desert. (Of course Mycroft gave us a cake - he wouldn’t want to take the risk of missing cake that night!) 

The evening went off flawlessly with lots of laughter. Our family left before our friends and we moved the party from the restaurant to a club as the hour grew late. We danced, and drank, and augmented our natural high with a chemical boost. By the time we stumbled out of the club to hail a cab, Victor and I were both desperate to get our hands on each other. We snogged and groped in the back of the cab while the cabbie politely kept his eyes averted from the rear view mirror. When he pulled up at our building, Victor gave him double the fare as a tip and explained that it was our wedding night. The cabbie looked confused but didn’t question his good fortune in receiving such a generous tip.

One of the effects of cocaine I loved was how it delayed orgasm.I could last all night when I was high enough and it affected Victor nearly as much. We celebrated our wedding until the sun came up, and it was finally when Victor came inside me, shuddering and gasping, that he pulled me over the edge along with him. 

We postponed our honeymoon for three weeks. I’d taken a private case that gave me the the opportunity to travel to America. The cousin of a woman I’d helped with a complex estate case lived in Miami, Florida. It seemed the cousin’s husband was in jail accused of double murder. Victor and I decided to make the trip our honeymoon. We’d enjoy a week on the beach then I’d work on the case - I didn’t expect it to take long.


	4. Shards around our feet

The three years following our wedding were busy for both of us. Victor worked hard and made partner, which meant even longer hours at the office for him. With the promotion came a larger salary and profit sharing bonuses. We moved to a larger flat and upgraded our furnishings with the help of a decorator. Victor insisted we hire a housekeeper since neither of us were particularly tidy. 

My business was also growing. I started a website that brought in private clients and more came from referrals from satisfied past clients. Lestrade called me in on enough cases that the Met finally gave me an all-access key card. My brother referred cases to me on occassion, but I couldn’t say much about the classified work I did for his agency. It did involve quite a bit of travel, but then so did Victor’s work, so things worked out nicely between us. The time we spent together was made more precious by the days and sometimes weeks, we spent apart.

I knew I tended to be rather manic when it came to my work. Interesting cases grabbed hold of me and I could think of little else until I’d solved them. I developed a habit of staying up all night and playing the violin at odd hours. Victor didn’t mind at first but eventually he bought a box of earplugs to keep in the nightstand for those nights I needed music to help me think. I also found it easier to think on an empty stomach. Victor expressed concern many times over the weight that seemed to fall off when I was on a long and complex case but I’d compensate between cases with healthy meals to appease his worries.

 

Victor certainly made a lot more money than I did but he never brought up the issue. I had some family money from my grandmother - she’d left money in trust for Mycroft and myself. I never had to touch it because Victor covered our household expenses. He even covered our account at the tailor and our department store accounts. Victor also saw to most of the day-to-day details of running the household, like paying bills, grocery shopping and cooking. I was happy to leave these things to him so I could focus on cases and the experiments needed to test my hypotheses on various forensic matters. We bought a second table for the kitchen so that I didn’t have to fuss with packing and unpacking my microscope and experiments every day. Victor was so accommodating of my work and always spoke proudly to our friends of how I helped the police and my clients.

Victor and I were gloriously happy, living the life we’d hoped for when we graduated from university. We’d grabbed London by the horns and tamed her. We were young, beautiful, successful, had a beloved circle of friends and amazing careers. And if I sometimes didn’t speak for days at a time while obsessed with a case, Victor didn’t seem to mind.

Just before Christmas, Lestrade called me in on a particularly gruesome series of murders. Prostitutes were being murdered in bloody and grisly ways. The killings seemed random but I knew there had to be a link; I just had to find the pattern in the chaos. I worked round the clock, often staying at the Met for 36 hours at a time. When I’d remember to check my mobile there’d be a dozen texts from Victor checking in to make sure I was taking care of myself and that I remembered to eat. The case dragged on past New Years; I finally made a deduction that blew it wide open the first week of the new year. Lestrade picked up the suspect I’d identified and he confessed immediately. His mother had been a prostitute. He was obviously deeply affected by a childhood that was nothing but trauma, taking out his frustrations with his late mother on prostitutes who triggered his memories of her. 

I was glad to be quit of the case and eagerly grabbed a cab home. It was midafternoon, a typical London January day of cold, overcast skies and impending drizzle. I bounded up the stairs to our flat, eager to take a shower, eat then crash until Victor arrived home that evening. We’d go out to dinner to celebrate my success and he’d ply me with questions about the case then tell me how brilliant I am and that the Met couldn’t function without me. I loved basking in Victor’s adoration, of how thrilled he always was when I cracked a difficult case. 

I heard movement in the living room as I fished my keys out of my coat pocket. Victor was home - good! I wondered why he’d be home so early in the day but I was glad for it. Maybe the shower could wait until after a post-case victory shag.

Victor’s shock was apparent as he turned his head toward the sound of the door opening but it didn’t even come close to my shock at finding him buried balls-deep in a tall, good looking Norwegian man (or was it Finnish? Hard to tell from the back of his head) who was bent over Victor’s chair in front of the fireplace, knees in the seat of the chair as Victor fucked him from behind. 

Victor pulled out roughly and reached for the trousers that were pooled around his ankles. The blond man growled in protest before glancing over his shoulder. The shock on his face when he saw me in the doorway would have been comical if my life hadn’t been crumbling to pieces at my feet. He said something to Victor in Norwegian (got that deduction right) as he stood and jerked up his pants and trousers. Victor answered, also in Norwegian, and I roused myself enough from my shocked state to address him in the same tongue. “Victor obviously told you he was married and his husband would be tied up at work all evening. Sorry to disappoint you, but I finished the case.” The blond man’s shock intensified when he realized I could understand he and Victor’s exchange. He buckled his belt quickly and fled; I stepped out of the way and held the door for him. As the sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs, I turned to Victor. I remained silent - my work had taught me that the guilty tend to babble if left to their own devices.

“Sherlock, this is not what it seems. He’s not... it’s just sex. He doesn’t mean anything to me. You were busy, you haven’t been home in ages and when you are here you’re lost in your head. I needed … it’s just sex, that’s all.” At least Victor had the grace to blush furiously as he spewed his excuses.

“You do not get to blame this on me, Victor.“ My tone was calm, conversational, as if we were discussing what to have for dinner instead of Victor’s total betrayal of our life together. “And I will not discuss this with you until you’ve had a shower. You stink of sex and Norwegian arse. Go shower.” 

Victor fled to the bedroom. When I heard the shower in the ensuite, I finally moved. I’d been standing by the open door. I removed my coat and scarf on autopilot then went into the kitchen and took a bottle of scotch out of the cabinet. I eyed the rectangular wooden box hidden behind the bottles. It was tempting to see what chemical helper might be inside. I certainly could use some help confronting my partner, my friend, my husband. But I decided that no; a double scotch would do. I wanted to be as clear-headed as possible as I watched my world burn to the ground.

I was sitting in my chair and sipping my drink when Victor came back out to the living room dressed in khaki trousers and a plain white shirt. His hair was wet and unstyled, falling in a riot of curls past his shoulders, his feet were bare (god, those beautiful feet!) and he rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows as he walked. I was more drunk than I should have been from a double scotch - but then, I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. I’d been living on coffee and cigarettes for nearly two weeks. 

Victor stood before me silently. Neither of us seemed to know how to start the conversation that would tear apart everything we’d built in over a decade.

At last, Victor sat down. He turned his chair to fully face mine then spoke; “Sherlock, you have to believe me, that didn’t mean anything to me. I just needed release and he was convenient. It doesn't affect anything between you and me. Please believe me, that was just… fucking. Will you forgive me?”

In all the years we’d been together, I realized then, I had seen but not observed. I was so blinded by sentiment that I saw what I wanted to see and ignored anything that didn’t fit the picture of Victor I’d built in my heart. But now I observed. 

Before I could think too deeply about what I observed, I spouted my deductions. “That’s not the first time, is it, Victor? You’ve slept with twelve - no, thirteen - men over the past three years. And three women. Women - I didn’t know you had it in you! You started fucking around when you got the promotion to the Scandinavian division. Into blonds are you? I never knew. At first you kept it over there, fucking around when you traveled. But lately you’ve brought it closer to home, haven’t you? Clueless Sherlock, he’ll never notice that I’m bringing my fuck buddies to _our home._ No, he’s too caught up in crime scenes to notice that I’ve bought pine scented candles to cover up the stink of sex. Good one there, Victor, giving me strongly scented candles as gifts so I won’t wonder at your newfound interest in them. You are clever.” 

I threw my deductions at Victor like knives. I intended them to cut. In all the years I’d known him, I had never said an unkind word or taken an unkind action toward him. And during those years, when I’d unintentionally hurt him, it had felt like I cut myself. But now I wanted to slice him with words until he bled.

He hung his head and shut his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so ashamed. Will you forgive me?” 

I looked closely at Victor’s face, that face I’d thought I loved, that face I’d seen display a thousand emotions and more. The face I thought I’d grow old with, retire to the country and wake up to see every morning. And I _observed._ I observed that Victor had had a taste of philandering and now had an insatiable hunger for strange. He’d promise to be faithful, and he even believed that he was telling the truth, but his secrets were like an open book to me. He’d try, and maybe even stay faithful for a month, or two, or even a year. But then I’d get busy with a case and he’d justify an indiscretion to himself as ‘just fucking’ and one would lead to another, and another, and another. Until he got sloppy and I walked in on him again. 

I didn’t want that life. I couldn’t lie to myself like Victor could. I couldn’t live a sham, an illusion. I’d loved this man deeply. And now I couldn’t settle for less. If I couldn’t trust him, I didn’t want him. I loved him still but I couldn’t live a lie. I deserved better. 

I loved Victor, but I loved myself more. That’s why I opened my mouth and calmly set fire to our lives. “No, Victor, I can’t forgive you. I could say I do, and you’d believe it and maybe I would, too. But eventually I’d get busy with my work and you’d be back to cheating, and you’d beg me to forgive you again, and I’d say it again, and again, and again. Until it got so unbearable that neither of us could stand it any longer. So let’s just skip that part, shall we?”

I rose and headed calmly toward the door. “I’m going out. I’ll be back later but I need some air right now.” 

Victor dropped to his knees and circled my waist with his long arms. “Sherlock! Please don’t do this! Don’t throw away everything. I don’t want to live without you. I love you! I do! I promise you, I’ll be faithful. I’ll never so much as look at another person, never again. You’re the only one who matters to me.”

I reached down to smooth the dark curls back from his high forehead. “I know you mean it, Victor. But I love you too much to wonder every time we’re apart who you might be fucking that day. Please, get up. Let’s leave this with some dignity. I don’t want to make it ugly.”

Victor buried his face in my belly. He shivered, whether from repressing tears or from shock, I didn’t know. I found myself in the incongruous position of comforting my cheating husband. I stroked his hair and tried to hold my anger in check. A strange calm descended over my mind. I felt like I was watching the scene from outside, like I was hovering about three feet above my body. I gently pressed Victor’s shoulder to release his grip on my waist. 

Victor remained on his knees and watched me as I turned toward the door. I deduced that he really didn’t think I would go. I grabbed my coat and scarf then opened the door and said goodbye calmly. The door closed gently behind me and I rushed down the stairs before I could change my mind.

I walked aimlessly for over an hour. I surfaced from my misery in Regents Park and wondered how I’d gotten there. I remembered that the lovely lady I’d helped in Miami (on our “honeymoon”) had bought a townhouse in the area and I decided to drop in and check on her. She was a good soul and could be a distraction right now. I found the address on my phone: 221 Baker Street. It didn’t take long to find the building and soon I pressed three doorbells for all the flat.s in the building. Who knew which one Mrs. Hudson occupied? She answered after a slight delay.

“Sherlock! What a wonderful surprise.” She pulled me down into a warm embrace, squeezing tight for a long moment before stepping back. “Come in, dear, come in. I hope you don’t mind me saying but you look a fright. Come along, I just took some lovely raspberry scones out of the oven. How about coffee and a snack?” Her stream of prattle eased the tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying in my shoulders; I followed her through the wallpapered foyer and into her flat, through the living room and into the kitchen. I took a seat at the small table while Mrs. Hudson bustled about starting the coffee maker and arranging still-warm scones on a plate. 

“Here you go, dear, here’s the butter, too. I remember from Florida that you like lots of butter on your bread. Now how do you take your coffee? Milk?”

I shook my head, unable to get a word in. “That’s right, you like the sweets, don’t you, so you’ll have sugar in your coffee. My word, I don’t know how you stay so thin eating sweets like that. I could do that when i was young, too, but I burned off a lot more calories back then than I do now. Sedentary, that’s what the doctors call it. Too much sitting and not enough exercise. But with my bad hip, I don’t really see how I could do any more than I do now.” It was clear that Mrs. Hudson was happy to have someone to listen to her so I let her go on, catching the gist of her words but letting the details wash over me. Her presence wrapped me like a blanket and I found myself drifting. She finally noticed and paused in her monologue. “What is it, dear? Are you alright?” She reached across the table and gave my hand a warm squeeze. That simple gesture of kindness nearly broke me, but I managed to hold myself together.

“I find myself needing a place to live, Mrs. Hudson. I remembered that you mentioned a basement flat. Would it happen to be available?” I was surprised that my voice sounded so steady, as if asking after a flat wasn’t putting the last nail into the coffin of my life with Victor. A flat. Of my own. To live in, alone, without Victor. My heart seemed to skip a beat at the thought.

“Oh dear, Sherlock, I don’t think you’d want the basement flat. Damp set in. It’s nearly impossible to keep a living area below the grade dry. I keep meaning to have someone round to look at it, but I just haven’t taken the time. But the upstairs flat is available. The young couple who leased it just had a baby and decided to move to the suburbs. They’ve just moved out. Would you like to see it?”

I quickly estimated how much a prime first floor in this neighborhood would pull in rent. I had enough money from my savings and my grandmother’s trust to live alone if I managed my funds wisely. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I’m afraid the upstairs flat would be out of my budget…”

She cut me off before I could continue. “Sherlock, dear, I wouldn’t even own this house if it wasn’t for you. I had some money tucked away. I knew from doing Mr. Hudson’s typing that he was up to no good, so I started tucking away a little here and there. He never realized. After you took care of that mess, I had enough saved to return home and live comfortably. I don’t really need the income. Just pay whatever you can. For you, a special rate.” She squeezed my hand again and smiled warmly. “And what about your young man? Won’t he want to see it first, before you make a decision?”

That broke me. I covered my face with my hand and struggled to maintain composure. Mrs. Hudson made comforting sounds and stood up to come around the table. She squeezed my shoulder as I remained silent. At last I got a hold of myself enough to answer. I dropped my hand and looked up at her. “That’s why I need a place to live, Mrs. Hudson. Victor and I are splitting up.” I hardly recognized my own voice.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” I had to look away from the expression of sympathy on her face. I stared at the table and sniffed.

“Well come on then, let’s see the upstairs. I think you’ll like it. It comes furnished and the last tenants even left behind some things in the kitchen. But there’s plenty of room for your own things, too.” I followed her up the stairs.

The door to the upstairs flat was open and we went right in. We stood in the middle of the living room while I looked around, watching dust motes swirl in the late afternoon sunlight shining through the tall windows. There were two chairs in front of the fireplace; one was shabby and the other sleek. I disliked the battered coffee table in front of the sofa, but did it really matter? I turned in place to see the kitchen. It was separated from the living room by pocket doors. Frankly, everything was hideous - the glass in the pocket doors, the wallpapers that seemed to be different on every wall in the building, the mismatched furniture. It couldn’t be more different from the modern, tasteful flat I shared with Victor. I loved it.

“The bedroom’s through there but I’m afraid there’s no furniture. The last couple had their own, so I moved the furniture upstairs to the second bedroom.” Mrs. Hudson moved to the kitchen and opened cupboards to show me that a few dishes were indeed left by the previous tenants. “You’ll want to bring your own things, I’m sure. Just box these up if you don’t want them and put them out as rubbish.”

I stepped past Mrs. Hudson and headed down the short hallway. The flat had an odd configuration with doors in unusual spots. The oddness added to the charm. I glanced into the loo - it was small but held a large claw-footed tub - and the empty bedroom. I turned to find Mrs. Hudson watching.

“It’s perfect.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiled. I moved to stand beside her but couldn’t meet her eyes. “I … umm .. need…”

Once again Mrs. Hudson seemed to read my mind, cutting me off to give voice to my thoughts. “You’re welcome to stay tonight if you’d like. Let me get you sheets for the bed upstairs and a blanket and you’ll be all set.”

I smiled gratefully. I wasn’t ready to go home - no, back to Victor’s flat. I needed time to think. I remained standing until Mrs. Hudson returned with a neatly folded set of white sheets and a hand-knit blanket of the type grandmothers keep on the back of their sofas. I thanked her warmly.

After Mrs. Hudson left I prowled about the flat for a while, opening cupboard doors, going upstairs and leaving the sheets on the bed, looking out of every window and studying the various views. At last I settled on the sofa, still wearing my Belstaff. I drew my legs up, clasped my arms around them and rested my chin on my knees. I needed to think but instead found myself drifting. I spun the heavy gold band round and round on the fourth finger of my left hand.

It was past midnight before I noticed the light had faded. London’s everpresent luminescence gave enough light for me to make my way around the flat. I went to the loo and considered going upstairs but knew I would not sleep. I pulled out my phone and dropped into the leather armchair.

There were twenty missed calls and forty-three texts from Victor. I sighed wearily; I really didn’t want to hear his voice right now or read anything that he could possibly have to say. I had told him I’d be back, but I hadn’t specified just when that would be. Not tonight - I couldn’t face another scene tonight. I ignored his texts and sent one of my own instead. 

::Will not be back tonight. Will talk to you later.::

My phone immediately buzzed in response. Victor was still awake, waiting for me. Instead of warming my heart it seemed incredibly tedious. I shut off my phone to stop its buzzing. I got up to get a drink of water in the kitchen, grateful to the tenants who had left a few glasses behind. When I’d drained the glass and refilled it, I carried it to the battered coffee table then removed my shoes, coat and scarf. There were hooks in the landing; I hung the coat there. I debated removing the rest of my clothes but feared that Mrs. Hudson might come to check on me, since I’d been in a state of obvious distress during our interactions this evening. Sighing, I crawled under the knit blanket in my shirt and trousers, sure I’d spend a miserable night staring at the ceiling.


	5. Moving and moving on

I woke the next morning to find my brother sitting in the leather armchair. I knew the second I saw his face. “You knew.”

Mycroft had the good manners to look abashed. He nodded but didn’t meet my eyes.

“How long?” 

“A few months.” Mycroft kept his eyes on the floor.

“You knew for what - three months? Six months?” I wanted to rip him to pieces but I knew it was only because he was here and Victor wasn’t. I observed my misplaced anger and marveled; overnight my hurt had transmuted to anger. I was angry with Victor, angry with the world, angry with Mycroft - but most of all, angry with myself for having been so impaired by sentiment that I didn’t allow myself to observe. Mycroft’s composure in the face of my own fury only fed it. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me.”

“I confronted him. He assured me the affairs would stop. He did stop, for a time. Until yesterday.”

It gave me no satisfaction that my deduction of his inability to stay faithful was true. “Yet you didn’t tell me.”

“You were happy.” Mycroft sounded sad.

“I was.” Mycroft finally met my eye, and I knew. “You threatened him. But he cheated anyway.”

Mycroft nodded. “It worked for a short time.”

“You tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t hear. All of your chatter about caring not being an advantage.” 

Mycroft nodded again. “It isn’t, is it, brother? Sentiment blinds one to the obvious.”

That hurt. I nodded because it was true, I’d never observed the truth because I had been blinded by the chemical impairment caused by intimate relations with Victor - the chemical defect usually labeled as ‘love.’

Mycroft stood and looked around the flat. “I think this flat could work out quite well for you.”

I was so angry, I wanted to take advantage of my brother any way I could. “I’ll need movers. Arrange it.”

“Of course. At your convenience.” Mycroft had not admitted he was sorry but his eagerness to meet my request spoke more clearly than any words could have done.

“Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll need boxes and packing materials earlier.”

Mycroft pulled his phone from his breast pocket and sent a text. The look he gave me as he replaced it in the pocket told me it was taken care of. He rose to go but paused in the doorway. “You should know, brother mine, that Victor called me after midnight. He was quite distraught that you were not answering your phone and asked me to find you.”

I looked at the weak sunlight coming through the twin living room windows. “It’s barely half six.”

Mycroft gave me a tight smile. “I had people working on it through the night. I’ll arrange a new phone for you. Yours deactivates GPS when it’s turned off. GPS is active in newer models even if the battery is removed. It would have saved me a night of … worry.”

“You don’t have the right to worry about me, Mycroft. You knew Victor was cheating yet you kept quiet.” I tried to control my voice but my fury bled through.

“Nevertheless, I do.” He headed down the stairs. I rose and slammed the door after him.

I folded Mrs. Hudson’s blanket, used the loo, washed my face and drank another glass of water. I looked around but there was nothing else to do. I picked up my phone and held the power button. It buzzed to life and vibrated; I didn’t bother to count the voicemails and texts from Victor.

I still didn’t want to deal with him and didn’t want to return home - to Victor’s flat - until after he’d left for work. I smoothed my hands over my trousers. They’d do for a coffee shop this morning. I slipped on my shoes and jacket, wrapped my scarf around my neck and shrugged into my greatcoat. I paused in the foyer but didn’t hear any movement from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t wake her when I slammed the door in my childish fit.

I went out the front door and into the cafe - Speedy’s - immediately beside it. Coffee and a pastry made me feel a little better, but not much. I started with the most recent text and read backward through a dozen or so, spinning my wedding band around the ring finger of my left hand with my thumb. All the texts were Victor asking me to come home, promising to be faithful, telling me he loved me. It hurt to read his words because I wanted to believe them. But I couldn’t lie to myself and I would not live with someone I could not trust. I would not become some pathetic cuckold. 

I stalled at the cafe for another half an hour then decided to walk toward home - Victor’s flat. I wanted to give him plenty of time to leave for work before my arrival. My steps were deliberate this morning, unlike yesterday’s blind ramble. The closer I came to my former home, the heavier my steps felt, until I at last climbed the stairs reluctantly. A glance at my watch told me it was nearly 10am. I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d be alone to pack.

My relief turned into alarm when I pushed open the door to find Victor seated on the sofa. He turned his head toward the sound of the door opening. The anguish in his expression cracked my angry resolve. This man had been my friend when I was friendless, my entry into a social group, my lover. My husband. But now, he was no longer a friend to me. He watched me silently as I looked over the stack of folded boxes and packing paper near the door. Mycroft had wasted no time in getting supplies delivered and I was honestly surprised he hadn’t directed a team to pack my belongings and move them to Baker Street without me present. 

The large pile of packing supplies said it all. I looked up to find Victor also looking at it. He felt my glance and met my eyes. “You’re really doing this?” 

I nodded. All at once, Victor lunged upwards from the sofa, captured me in both arms and, buried his face in my shoulder. “Please don’t, Sherlock. Stay.” His shoulders heaved as he pulled me tighter.

I stood with my arms at my sides, feeling numb. I wanted to return his embrace. I wanted to tell him yes, I’ll stay, everything can be the same, it will be alright. But I knew that was a lie, and I couldn’t live a lie. I couldn’t stay and wait for him to stray again. I stood still, his weight heavy against me, struggling to breathe evenly and contain the emotions churning inside. Victor pulled me close, folding his body around me. “Please. What can I do to make you stay? I don’t know what I‘ll do without you.” 

Victor felt good. His weight, his warmth, the familiar scent of him, the familiar home we shared. Victor was comfort, and routine, and winter nights entwined under a pile of quilts and summer afternoons shirtless on the fire escape, sharing a cigarette and talking about nothing. Victor was home and family and shared meals and midnight conversations. I wanted him, but even more, I wanted myself.

I wanted my self respect; I’d never have it if I stayed. It was as simple as that. 

I raised my arms, placed my hands on his shoulders and held him away. “Victor.” My voice was low, thick. “I can’t tell you what to do, if you can’t figure it out for yourself. I can’t be with someone whom I have to tell how to be faithful.” It felt like my ribcage was a size smaller than my lungs. 

Victor’s face crumpled. His voice came out as a strangled whisper. “Don’t, Sherlock. Don’t give up on me.”

“I didn’t give up, Victor. You did. I’ve been faithful.”

The corners of Victor’s mouth turned down. “I was lonely, Sherlock. When I was away for work, when you were out all night on cases. I needed someone.”

“You had someone, Victor. Me. One word was all it would have taken. I would have traveled with you. If you’d called, I would have come home. Don’t try to blame this on loneliness. I was lonely when we were apart, too, but I never went elsewhere for sexual gratification.”

Victor dropped his head and let out a long sigh. My hands were still on his shoulders but a foot of space separated our bodies. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t know how to make you believe it, but I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, Victor.” I dropped my hands and stepped back. I turned toward the packing materials. “Are you going in to the office today?”

Victor rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. He let out a shaky breath before answering. “No, I’ve taken the day off. Do you mind. If I stay?”

I’d picked up a cardboard flat and started folding it on the scorelines to make a box. I looked over my shoulder at Victor, still standing beside the sofa. “It’s your flat, Victor.”

A strangled sound escaped his throat. “It’s our flat, Sherlock. Yours and mine, our home.”

I turned to face him, glancing left and right. “Your income has been our primary support. It’s your home. Stay. You bought it.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve secured a flat in Central London.”

The shock on Victor’s face was nearly comical. “But. When? You just. It was only yesterday! How? So quickly?”

I wanted to grin at his confusion and would have done so if the circumstances had been different. “Mrs. Hudson moved back from Florida. She bought a townhouse divided into flats. I found myself in her neighborhood last evening. She has a flat open right now and I’ve taken it.”

“I was so worried last night. I even called your brother. I didn’t know where you’d gone. ” Victor’s voice sounded raw, abused, and I deduced he’d spent the night awake.

I turned back to assembling boxes. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand the strain of holding the pieces together into a semblance of myself. I wished that Victor would just go to work.

Victor stirred from his slumped posture and went into the kitchen. I heard him rummaging in the cupboards and fridge. The sound was familiar, comforting, and not what I needed. I folded the last box and looked around the living room. How in the world would I ever untangle the life I’d woven together with Victor’s? I needed to pack my things, but that was nearly unimaginable when so much of it was _our _things. I strode to a wooden bookcase and began to fill a box with my books. This was an easy starting point - nearly all the books in the flat were mine. Victor read financial magazines and news online. He’d long since left paper-and-ink books behind.__

__Next I moved on to a glass-fronted case. Everything in it also belonged to me. Mementos of past cases: keys and preserved moths, specimens, a skull and a Persian slipper where I kept cigarettes. Victor called me from the kitchen as I finished wrapping the last of the case’s contents._ _

__I went into the kitchen to find him plating up omelettes. A plate of toast sat on the table along with two full coffee mugs._ _

__“Victor, I had breakfast earlier.”_ _

__A pained expression passed over his handsome features. “Please, Sherlock, sit. Can’t we at least have a last meal together?” His voice broke on the word ‘last.’ I sat at my usual place at the table and stirred sugar into the coffee I really didn’t want. I wasn’t hungry but picked at the food on the plate before me, as did Victor. We sat in silence, the only sounds the hum of the refridgerator and the sounds of our forks against the plates._ _

__When I could not bear the silence any longer, I spoke, “Victor, you keep the furniture. I don’t need any of it. The dishes, everything. Just keep it. I’ll only take my personal possessions.”_ _

__Pain creased Victor’s brow. “Take whatever you want, Sherlock.”_ _

__I shook my head. “The flat is furnished. I just only a few towels and my clothes. My books, my … clutter.”_ _

__Victor drew in a shaky breath. “Can I come see it? Can I … visit you?”_ _

__I looked into his pained eyes. I wanted to wound him like he’d wounded me but I held my anger and answered simply, “I think it’s best if we don’t decide that now.”_ _

__“Sherlock, you’re my best friend.” Victor sniffed._ _

__I shook my head. “No, Victor. Friends don’t treat friends like you’ve treated me. We aren’t friends.” I folded my lips together in a tight line. I wanted to say more, I wanted to be cruel, to cut him with words until he squirmed bleeding before me. But I held myself in check in the interest of just getting this tedious scene over with. I stood up, carried my plate and mug to the sink, scraped the uneaten omelette into the bin, rinsed the dishes, then returned to my packing._ _

__In three hours the packing was complete. Victor had said little after breakfast. We’d exchanged practical words about what linens I would take and how he should forward my mail. He’d offered again to help with packing but I’d curtly declined. When packed boxes were piled around the flat and the few items of furniture I wanted to take were tagged, I pulled out my phone and texted Mycroft, who replied me that movers were on their way with a lorry._ _

__Victor had retreated to the bedroom so I sat on the sofa to wait. I looked around at the tastefully decorated, tidy flat where I’d been so happy. Had I? I realized now that it had been a facade for past several years. I’d seen the Victor I wanted to see, not the man with whom I actually shared this flat. Had I really been happy? I’d thought so at the time, but the dark lens of Victor’s infidelity colored my memories. I wanted to reconcile the happy years with the pain of the present but the two seemed unable to coexist._ _

__I heard the bedroom doorknob turn. Victor came into the room. His eyes were red-rimmed and his clothing was rumpled. He looked like a man who had finally confronted his demons - and the demons had won. He took a seat on the sofa beside me._ _

__“Sherlock,” he said, soft and gentle and pleading. The sound cut me and I turned toward him, wrapping him in my arms. We kissed, wild and hard and painful, neither sure who had initiated it. Victor leaned into me, pressing my body into the corner of the sofa, rolling his weight on me, chest to chest. He opened my lips with his tongue and I wanted him. A strangled sound came from my throat and he pulled back, his lips hovering millimeters above mine. “Sherlock, please. Please.”_ _

__I felt everything he packed into those three words: please don’t leave, please forgive me, please love me, please fuck me, please stay. I wanted to respond, I wanted it so much. I wanted to say ‘yes,’ to capture his lips again, to stay and pretend everything would work out, to fuck him right there on the sofa._ _

__I wanted it all but instead I looked into his eyes, so close above mine, and shook my head slightly. “I can’t,” I whispered._ _

__Victor sat back and ran his hands into his hair, his elbows on his knees. His eyes were closed and he held his breath. I watched him, calm on the exterior but a swirling ball of emotions on the inside. At last he released a loud breath. He stood and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His wedding band glinted against his pale skin. He straightened his back and said “Okay,” more to himself than to me. He turned to look at me where I still sat on the sofa. “Okay,” he repeated. “I’m going out. I won’t be long.”_ _

__I should have told him the movers were on their way but instead I nodded and looked away. I heard the rustle of fabric as Victor donned his coat then the door opening and closing, and he was gone. I relaxed into the sofa and fished into my pocket for my keys. The finality of sliding the flat’s door key off the ring felt like closure. I laid the key on the coffee table and sat back to wait for the movers._ _

__They came, packed their lorry, and we were gone before Victor returned._ _

__~*~_ _

__I awoke disoriented but after a moment my brain filled in the details: I was in the upper storey bedroom at my new flat on Baker Street, tangled in Mrs. Hudson’s sheets, alone. I heard movement below - that must have been what woke me. I rolled out of bed and wrapped the top sheet snugly around me. I wasn’t sure in which box I’d packed my dressing gown and I wasn’t going to get dressed seven o’clock in the morning just because my annoying brother Mycroft decided to check on me at such an ungodly hour._ _

__The stairs protested loudly as I thundered down them, preparing to launch into a diatribe toward my brother. I pulled up short in my tracks as I nearly barreled into Mrs. Hudson. She held a tea tray in both hands. “Oh, there you are Sherlock. I brought you up a bite to eat and morning tea. Kind of a welcome to your new home. Mind you, I won’t make this a habit. I’m your landlady, I’m not running a B and B.” She sat the tray on one of the occasional tables beside an armchair in the living room. “My goodness, you’ve got your work cut out for you, young man. All these boxes, and you’ve got to get those bookcases and hutches squared away. I don’t suppose you moved any furniture into the bedroom, since you were sleeping upstairs.”_ _

__The living room was rather a disaster. The movers had deposited all of the boxes and furniture in it. I did have a full day’s work cut out, trying to find spaces for my things alongside the furniture that had come with the flat. I took a biscuit off the tray and flopped into the leather armchair and gratefully accepted the teacup she held out to me. “I need to go shopping for bedroom furniture. But unpacking is my first order of business.”_ _

__Mrs. Hudson took the armchair opposite. She beamed at me over the rim of her teacup. “Who would have thought, you - here! I’m so pleased, Sherlock.”_ _

__I grinned in return. “You might want to hold off judgment, Mrs. Hudson. I keep odd hours and have very little regard for both the clock and the calendar.”_ _

__She smiled even more broadly. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m used to all sorts of odd hours. Mr. Hudson was always coming and going. I never knew when he’d be out. I won’t even hear you, I’m sure.”_ _

__We finished our tea in companionable silence. Mrs. Hudson took the tray away with an offer to help unpack if I just said the word. I left the door open when she left and rummaged in boxes for towels, toiletries and comfortable clothing to wear for the heavy work._ _

__Mycroft arrived unannounced at midday. By that time I’d sorted the boxes containing my clothing and bedding from the rest and carried them into the first storey bedroom, moved the furniture I’d brought into its final destination, hung a cow’s skull on the living room wall, set up my laptop on the desk in the living room, and deleted nine unread texts from Victor._ _

__“I see you’re making yourself at home,” Mycroft said, coolly surveying the mess. I wasn’t sure how, but all the work I’d done so far just seemed to make the mess worse, not better._ _

__I was seated cross-legged in front of the fireplace, unpacking a box of books, sorting them into piles of their final destination: living room bookcase, desk, bedroom. I looked around at the jumble of the possessions I’d accumulated in my life thus far. I knew Mycroft had intended his comment as a slight, but I felt content that the flat was shaping up to be a home. “Yes. Finally. Home, school, flatmates, Victor - but I never had a chance to have a place of my own.”_ _

__“I do suppose it will be good for you, after thirty-two years of constant cohabitation, to spend some time in self sufficiency.” Mycroft made it sound as if living with other human beings was loathsome. I suppose, to him, it would be._ _

__“I need bedroom furniture.”_ _

__“Pick something out, arrange delivery. I’ll take care of it.”_ _

__I grinned grimly. Another penance Mycroft was willing to pay for his months of silence about Victor’s infidelity. I resolved to pick out the most ridiculously expensive bedroom furniture Harrod’s had to offer. “I’d offer you tea but I didn’t pack any food from Victor’s kitchen.”_ _

__Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out a debit card. “Here, I’ve set up a household account for you.”_ _

__I took the card and slipped it into my pocket. I suppose I should have had a little more pride, but I was sure Mycroft had set up the account out of my own inheritance anyway. What did it matter?_ _

__“Feel free to make yourself useful, Mycroft.”_ _

__My brother looked around in alarm. “I’m sure you’d rather find homes for your things yourself.”_ _

__“Either get to work or get out, Mycroft”_ _

__Mycroft was halfway out the door before I finished the sentence._ _


	6. Who'd want me for a flatmate

A strange sound woke me, a cross between a hoot owl and nails on chalkboard - followed by my name. I quickly determined it was Mrs. Hudson making some type of infernal noise to wake me up and share breakfast with her again. At 7 am. I will surely have to have a talk with her about this. I turned over and tried to ignore her, but the strange sound floated up the stairs once again. What was that noise?

It was useless to try to ignore that woman any longer. I wasn’t getting any sleep, so I yawned and slipped on pajama bottoms and a tshirt, then grabbed my dressing gown from the back of a chair and pulled it on as I went downstairs. 

Mrs. Hudson was in the living room, turning slowly, a tray of food and a teapot in her hands. “Oh dear, Sherlock. The mess seems to have grown a bit, hasn’t it? There’s nowhere for me to sit this tray.”

I took pity on the dear and picked up a box from the coffee table. I shuffled it to the top of a stack beside the window. I could have sworn there had been a desk there yesterday. It was now piled under so many boxes, no evidence of its existence remained. 

We shared a pleasant hour over muffins and tea. After Mrs. Hudson left, I set about unpacking and tidying until I got a text from Lestrade asking me to meet him at Molly Hooper’s lab - he needed my expertise on a suspicious death. I showered and dressed and was at St. Bartholomew’s in half an hour. It took longer to get to the hospital than it took to solve Lestrade’s case. Any idiot could have deduced the man died from ptomaine poisoning, probably from leaving the milk on the counter then re-refrigerating it. The slob died because he would rather have risked illness than gone out to a market for a new carton of milk.

I stopped by the hospital cafe for coffee on my way out and ran into an acquaintance, Dr. Stamford. Despite his porcine appearance and none-too-bright demeanor, Mike Stamford is actually a brilliant clinician. I’d stumbled upon his hidden intelligence several years past, when I was stuck on an especially puzzling case. He’d stopped in Molly’s lab and pointed out information I’d missed. Since that day we’d often shared coffee or a mid afternoon snack. We’d discuss the latest findings in medicine, my work and police ineptitude. I was glad for the distraction today and invited him to join me for coffee.

Once we were seated, our conversation roamed from subject to subject until he asked me about my ‘nice young man.’ Victor and I had run into Mike and his wife at Harrod’s during the Christmas season last year and since that time, Mike often asked me to give Victor his regards. I dropped my eyes to my paper coffee cup and told him in as few words as possible that things were over between Victor and me.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sherlock. You two seemed to get on so well.”

I glanced at the ceiling and considered for a moment. “It seems that Victor has the habit of getting on well with quite a few people.”

Mike’s face fell as he understood the implication. “Oh, that’s...”

“Yes, well, it happens. I’ve got my own place now.”

“If you need anything, just let me know.”

I looked into Mike’s kind, pallid face. How settled he was, married to his childhood sweetheart, kids well into school, a solid career that would see him through until retirement. The only thing Mike could help me with was occasional flashes of insight and shared coffee to discuss ideas. “I will.”

We shook hands later as Mike went off to teach a clinical and I headed toward my new home.

~*~

Days bled into weeks and before I realized, I’d been at Baker Street for two months. Mrs. Hudson, who still insisted she was not my housekeeper, fed me either breakfast or dinner daily and clean sheets mysteriously appeared on my bed weekly. I went to Harrods and did, indeed, charge a ludicrously expensive bed, mattress set and dresser to Mycroft’s account. Alone at   
night in the vast bed was the only time I’d allow myself to miss Victor. During the daylight hours my life was full with work.

I was unlocking the door when a voice called from down the block, “Hey, Sherlock!”

I turned to find Timothy, one of the other brokers in Victor’s office. I regarded him coolly as he approached and held out his hand. I shook it and he drew me close for a back-thumping bro-hug. Timothy was one of the regulars; we’d shared dinners and drinks and chemical highs for years. “Where have you been? We’ve all missed you, Sherlock.”

I turned toward the door and pushed it inward, then stood aside to allow Timothy to enter. “You know, Timothy, that Victor and I are no longer together.” 

I followed him into the foyer, where he turned to me with a pained expression. “I know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” 

I started up the stairs and Timothy followed. I gestured toward the living room as I unwound my scarf. Timothy took off his coat and laid it over the end of the sofa while I hung my coat and scarf on the hook by the door. “Care for a drink?” I offered.

“Yeah, that would be great.”

I went into the kitchen and rummaged for clean glasses. After I found two, I poured Scotch and returned to the living room. Timothy accepted one and sipped as I took my seat across from him. “What brings you here tonight?”

“I was concerned, Sherlock. We all were. No one’s heard from you in a couple of months.”

I regarded him coolly. “He sent you.”

Real emotion flooded his face. “No, Victor doesn’t even know I’m here. He’s been in Finland for two weeks. I really was concerned. We miss you. Come out with us tonight.”

I was silent while I considered the idea. I admitted to myself that I did miss the nights out, the dancing, the high. But the thought of going without a partner at my side - of being part of the meat market, or at least being perceived to be part of it - no. I couldn’t.

“Sorry, I’m tied up with work. Surely you understand.”

Timothy gave me a doubtful look. “Working, on a Thursday night? Come on, Sherlock! The weekend’s starting.”

“Yes, I have a very important case, suspected murder. It’s taking up all my time, and the police need it solved right away. Sorry, not tonight. Perhaps another time.” And like that, with a very believable lie, I shut the door on the people who had been my friends for many years, with whom I’d had many good times, and who I truly did like. But those nights, those friends, had all been shared with Victor. And even if they said they were not taking sides, that really meant they were taking the path of least resistance. It had been kind of Timothy to find me, but I knew he’d spread the word, and that that another time would never materialize. If I wanted to see them, I’d have to be the one to initiate contact.

We exchanged small talk while we finished our drinks and Timothy was soon on his way. And I curled up in the leather armchair, arms around my knees, and thought of how I’d always been surrounded by people when I was with Victor, and how much time I spent alone now. Well, there wasn’t anything to be done for it. I would never seek out a relationship again - of that, I was certain. That chapter in my life was closed. Too much risk comes with trusting another person. It’s best to seal the heart and open the mind. I’d devote myself even more fervently to my work and to developing my intellect. I didn’t need the complications that come with relationships.

~*~

I decided to stop for coffee in the Bart’s cafeteria before heading to the morgue. I needed Molly Hooper’s help, so I purchased an extra cup. She seemed to like little gestures like coffee and I’d found they went a long way toward securing her cooperation and assistance.

I was just leaving the cafe when Mike Stamford entered. He greeted me and asked me to join him. It meant that Molly’s cup would cool off, but I could always top it off later when I headed to see Molly. I turned around and found an empty booth. Mike soon joined me with his own coffee. We chatted a bit, discussing my recent cases and the courses he was currently teaching. 

After a bit he asked about my new flat. Caught off guard, I answered honestly, “It’s quiet. Too quiet. This is the first time I’ve ever really lived alone. Isn’t it funny that when we’re children, we dream of growing up and having our own place. Then, when we do get out own place, we realize it’s so much better to live with someone else?”

Embarrassed, I stared into my half empty coffee cup. I hadn’t intended to bare my soul to anyone, even kindhearted, genial Dr. Stamford.

“I know what you mean, Sherlock. I lived alone for a bit before I got married. It was dreadfully boring.”

Mike’s light tone helped ease my discomposure. I gave him a grateful half-smile. “Yes, it can be boring. Thankfully my landlady comes up at least once a day. Helps ease the tedium.”

“Have you thought of getting a flatmate? Surely someone would want a flatshare in your neighborhood.”

I shook my head. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

 

And the rest …  
well, you know the story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SincerelyChaos for beta on this fic. Without your help, I wouldn't be able to do this. KUDOS to you!


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